The Caged Birds Sing
by Eloise
Summary: Prequel to 'Soul Cages'. Five lost souls, and how they got that way...Chap 5 added - STORY COMPLETE
1. Love can be a Terrible Thing: Connor

TITLE:  The Caged Birds Sing

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise to put them away carefully when I'm finished.

NOTES: This is a five chapter prequel to my fic 'Soul Cages', examining the motivations behind certain characters and their actions in that story. The title, of course, comes from a verse in the song 'Soul Cages' by Sting (you know, it really is a wonderful inspiration for this fic series!) Lines of dialogue and scenes here are from Loyalty and Sleep Tight.

Each of these chapters can be read as a standalone fic – I will be writing one for each of my five main characters, and they will be set pre-Buffy and pre-Angel Seasons 1 – in some cases, very pre!  A slight warning here: read 'Soul Cages' first, as this will effectively contain spoilers for that storyline. And now onwards, to the fic!

The Caged Birds Sing 

'And what's in it for me, my pretty young thing?

Why should I whistle, when the caged birds sing?

If you lose a wager with the king of the sea

You'll spend the rest of forever in the cage with me.'

Chapter 1: Love can be a Terrible Thing - Connor

'Love can be a terrible thing' 

(Wesley – 'Loyalty')

'Stephen! Watch your back!'

He heard his father shout over the howl of the ever-present wind, and spun on the balls of his feet, trying to maintain his balance. The beast took advantage of his distraction, and swung its oversized arm, catching him squarely on the shoulder, its spines digging deep into his flesh.

He fell heavily to one side, saw his father hurry forward, something metallic glinting in his hand.

'No, Father! It's too strong' 

He knew his father was not capable of defeating this creature on his own. He was brave and fearless, but age was beginning to take its toll on the man, and he had not the strength to fight the beast by himself. He gritted his teeth against the burning in his shoulder, and swung his own weapon around his body, using the momentum to slam the axe into the beast's shoulder. An eye for an eye, just as his father had taught him.

The creature roared in pain, and his father pressed home their advantage, shoving his dagger deep into the beast's belly, twisting it savagely. It fell to its knees, and then toppled face first onto the jagged rocks, impaling itself on a particularly sharp spike. For a moment there was no sound but the wailing wind. Then his father wiped his gore-reddened hands on his animal skins, and came over to where he lay, panting heavily.

'Are you alright, my boy?' he enquired anxiously, dropping to his knees beside him. His gentle hands began to lift the skins that covered his wounded shoulder, and Stephen pulled away.

'No. I'm… fine. I was foolish. I let my guard down.'

His father would not be deterred. 

'You're hurt, Stephen. Please let me look.' His voice contained some degree of command, and he knew better than to disobey his father. He sat up stiffly, allowed him to examine his wound.

'Father, please. It's fine. You know it will heal quickly. I always do.'

The older man covered his shoulder with one of his own animal skins.

'I'm not so sure. This doesn't look so good. Do you feel hot, or light-headed?

As the other spoke, he felt a tiny shift in realities, and quite suddenly he was in his father's arms, drenched with cooling sweat.

'What happened?' His voice sounded weak.

'You passed out. I think there may have been poison in the creature's spines.' 

He was hefted up carefully, and he curled against his father's chest, ashamed of his weakness.

'I think we need to get you back to the cave, my boy.' He heard his father whisper.

Then he heard no more.

*~*~*~*

He opened his eyes and blinked at the brightness of the fire next to him. His father did not usually light the fire until nightfall, and he wondered at this lapse in judgement. The man sat hunched over the fire, his smallest blade playing over the flames, until it seemed to glow as amber as the burning wood.

'Father…?' he questioned softly, his voice feeling hoarse and painful.

There was a soft sigh from the man, and he turned towards him, his dark eyes bright with liquid.

'What's wrong, Father?'

'You're badly hurt, Stephen. The creature's spines contained a poison, which is making you sick. I need to get the spines out of your shoulder, and flush the poison from your system.' 

He moved towards him, carrying the knife, a wooden bowl, and a piece of broken root.

'I don't want to hurt you, boy, but I must get those spines out.' 

He wasn't sure, but he thought his father might be crying.

He rolled over carefully onto his chest, exposing the wounded area. 

'I am ready, Father.' He prayed that he would be able to take the pain without making a sound, making his father more upset than he already was.

He felt his father's hand on the back of his neck, a gentle pressure which he had often used to comfort him when he was younger, and had woken in the throes of a nightmare. He relaxed under the familiar touch, and prepared himself.

His shoulder was suddenly was on fire, and he was unable to prevent the childish scream which escaped him as the blade dug into his wounded flesh. His father did not hush him, held him down firmly with his other hand, as he worked the blade deeper into his shoulder.

'Please, stop! Papa, please!' A name he had not used since babyhood, it came unbidden to his lips, and he heard the older man draw a ragged breath.

'Close your eyes, my child. It will be over soon.' He whispered brokenly.

After an eternity of agony, the blade was removed, and his father poured a milky liquid onto the damaged flesh. He gasped at the coldness of the liquid after the searing heat of the knife, but almost immediately the roaring pain in his shoulder subsided to a dull ache. He felt his father's hands, gentle now, as he bound the wound with healing leaves.

His father turned him carefully onto his back, balancing his weight against his chest. 

'There now, child. Drink this.' 

The wooden bowl was placed against his mouth, and he sipped obediently. It tasted foul, but he was in no state to refuse it. When he had finished the mixture, his father removed the bowl, and laid him face down on his animal skins, carefully avoiding any further contact with the wound. 

After this he did not speak for a while; and this time Stephen was sure he was crying.

'Father?' 

'Yes, my boy?' His voice sounded strangely muffled.

'I'm sleepy. Is it time for sleep yet?'

'Yes, Stephen. It is time for you to sleep.' This time he sounded as if he were smiling a little.

'Would you tell me about your home, before you came here?'

It was a ritual they were both familiar with. As a small boy, Stephen had found it difficult to get to sleep, and his father had begun a simple ritual of a story before sleep to help him to relax. Often he told him stories from the Bible, his favourite being David and Goliath, but Stephen much preferred the stories his father told of his homeland, of the towns and people and the history surrounding them. His father cleared his throat, and Stephen opened an eye, saw that he had relaxed against the rock behind them. 

'Let's see…' 

He reached out with his good arm, and was rewarded with his father's hand over his own, warm and comforting. He listened drowsily to the story, drifting into sleep.

*~*~*~*

He bounced a little in his cradle, feeling rather impatient at his father's lack of concern for his hunger. He opened his mouth and made a few sucking noises, but that didn't seem to have the desired effect. His father continued folding his clean clothes. He didn't need clean clothes. He needed milk.

Oh, well. There was one sure way to guarantee results. He opened his mouth a little wider, and tested his lung capacity. Was mightily pleased with the results. Daddy came over to him immediately, and picked him up out of the cradle. He did not snuggle however. He was not in a snuggling mood. He was hungry. 

His father finally seemed to be getting the message. He was plonked down in the cradle again, and with pleasure he saw a bottle of milk being set into a pan of water. Mmm, warm milk. He almost cooed with pleasure, then remembered that he was trying to get Daddy to work as quickly as possible. He gave a couple more wails for good measure, and stuffed his tiny fist into into his mouth.

What now? His father moved away from the stove and went to the door. That was not working quickly. He sobbed unhappily at this lack of attention. Another adult had entered the room. He recognized his voice, different from all the others, soft and growly, with all sorts of sounds that the other adults didn't have in their voices. He liked Uncle Wes's voice. 

However, at this moment in time, he liked milk more. He wailed again softly. But the two men were deep in conversation, his father busy folding his clothes, his Uncle Wes, watching intently. For a moment he forgot to cry, so engrossed was he in trying to understand what they were saying. He recognized only his own name, and his father had said that to Uncle Wes lots of times. 

Suddenly, without any warning, Uncle Wes began to laugh. It was a strange sad sound, and he wasn't sure he liked it very much. He didn't think Uncle Wes was looking very well, and he didn't see anything funny to laugh about. He was hungry, and his bottle wasn't getting any closer.

There was a rumble, deeper than he had ever heard before, and his cradle began to shake violently. This was not fun. He howled loudly in protest, and was relieved when Daddy scooped him up inside his blanket and jumped across the room with him. He snuggled tight against his chest, and wailed harder, as the sky began to fall on him. And Uncle Wes was just standing there, doing nothing. His father shoved him hard, and they all tumbled into the hallway, the door crashing shut behind them.

His father held him very tight, tiny beads of dark red liquid dripping from his head onto his blanket. It was suddenly very quiet in the hallway. He could see Uncle Wes whispering something desperately, and he wished his father would notice, because Uncle Wes looked so upset, and maybe Daddy could make him feel better. But his father's eyes never left his face.

*~*~*~*

'And it was there, in Clifford's Tower, on the eve of the 16th of March 1190, that the Jews of York chose to die at one another's hands rather than recant their faith.'

Stephen stirred in his sleep, and mumbled something under his breath.

'Fire, earthquake, blood…'

Holtz tightened his grip on the boy's hand, and rubbed his thumb over his fingers. He was delirious from the poison, he guessed, placing his other hand against his forehead, which was surprisingly cool.

'Stephen, wake up.'

As always, the child obeyed him. His eyelids fluttered open, and he looked somewhat guilty.

'What were you dreaming of?' 

Stephen did not meet his eyes, dropped his gaze to his hands.

'Your story, Father. The one about the Jews and the tower. How they died – fire, earthquake and blood.' 

He looked up, to see if this would satisfy. Holtz knew the boy well enough to know when he was lying, but now was not the time to admonish him for it. He reached over and patted his head gently.

'There was fire and blood certainly, Stephen, but there was no mention of any earthquake. Perhaps I should choose a less violent story, considering your suggestive state.'

He closed his eyes again, and after a few minutes his breathing became deeper and slower. Holtz kept his hand on the back of his neck, reassuring the sleeping child with his presence.

*~*~*~*

He stretched and kicked both legs out together when he heard him coming. Time for milk. His hands reached up to grab a hand. Not the cool palm of his father. Not the green of Uncle Lorne. He was lifted up and cuddled against a chest, felt the beat of the man's heart through his little frame. He fussed a little, wriggling to find a more comfortable position against Uncle Wes's chest. 

That soft voice, so different from the others, began to soothe him, and he stopped fussing to hear the hum of a lullaby, the voice fuzzy and comforting. It stopped abruptly, the heart rate next to him quickened, the hands holding him stiffened, and he was set down again, ever so gently, into his crib.

More noise, not voices this time, but thumps and banging. He didn't like that at all. He was about to set up a new wail of disapproval, when he was picked up, so he settled again.

And now a familiar voice. He was placed in his father's embrace, cool hands holding him tenderly. The thrum of his deep voice was the only sound in his broad chest. His father sounded… so sad. It made him want to cheer him up, so he blew spit bubbles, and chewed his fist. But his father still looked sad. 

He was lifted close to his father's face, and he stared in fascination at his mouth, wondering if he would do that funny thing with his teeth and forehead that always made him giggle. He tried an experimental gurgle, but his father did not respond.

There were others there now. His father handed him back to Uncle Wes, who held him very tightly against his body. Uncle Wes was trembling. Did Daddy know why Uncle Wes was so scared? If his father knew, maybe he could help Uncle Wes. But they were moving quickly to the door, and his father was saying goodbye. 

Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, see you in the morning light… 

'Stephen.'

He could hear his father's voice calling him from the depths of sleep. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. It had been a strange dream, more like a memory, an echo of things past.

'Ah, there we are.' 

He opened his eyes, and his father was cradling his head gently.

'You need to drink some more medicine.'  His father brought the wooden bowl to his mouth and he swallowed a few mouthfuls, then pushed it away.

'Come on, Stephen. All of it.' 

 He did as he was bid. As always. 

'Father?'

'What is it, my boy?' 

He swallowed a few deep breaths and summoned his courage.

'May I ask a question?'

He felt his father sigh heavily. 

'It's very late, Stephen. You should get some more rest.'

'Please, father?'

'Very well.'

'What was he like? The man who gave me to you?'

'God gave you to me, Stephen.' He heard a warning note in his father's voice, and thought he had better not push this too far.

'Yes, father. But the man God used, what was he like?'

For a moment there was silence, and he wondered if his father would cuff him around his ear for his insolence. But the blow did not fall.

'Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. He was a good man. He truly believed that he was doing the best thing for you. He could not leave you with that… murderer.'

He heard the pain in his father's voice as he spoke of the vampire, his biological father. The beast that would have killed him had Holtz not taken Stephen away. He thought again of his dream, of the sad eyes that belonged to a man he believed was his father. He wasn't sure that man was really a monster.

Such thoughts were heresy. His father had told him what the vampire Angelus had done to his first family, and had wept silent tears afterwards. No creature capable of such cruelty could be trusted, his father had insisted. He dropped his head low, cheeks red with shame.

'Stephen, is there something you want to tell me?'

'I… I had a dream. About him.' 

He paused, and an eternity seemed to pass.

'Ah. Your father.'

He nodded dumbly, afraid to speak. 

'It's alright, Stephen.'  His father's tone was gentle, forgiving. 'He was kind in this dream, yes?'

Again he nodded, eyes fixed on his father's face.

'It's as I've always told you, Stephen. He is very clever. The devil is very clever. He comes to you, offering you all the things your heart desires. This is a terrible place for a child to grow up; I've never lied to you about that. And he offers you comfort, food, warmth, ease for your pain, isn't that right?'

He hid his face in his arm, felt hot tears of shame trace down his cheeks. 

'I'm sorry, Father. Please forgive me.'

He felt strong arms encircle him, supporting him gently.

'Nothing to forgive, my child. You wouldn't be human if you didn't have these feelings.'

He sobbed harder.

'There will come a time when you will find a way back home. It's what we've spent all these years preparing for. When that time comes, you must remember that underneath all the kindness, the seeming goodness, he is a monster. And a very dangerous one, for he is the devil with the face of an angel. Never let yourself be taken in by him. Never, do you understand me?'

He nodded and wiped his eyes roughly. 'Yes, Father.'

His father drew him closer into his embrace.

'Good boy. Now you must sleep, and get well.'

He closed his eyes again and weariness overtook him. As he drifted into a dreamless slumber he thought he heard his father whisper.

'Sleep tight, little one.'

'_Sleep tight, big guy. Daddy'll see you real soon_…' The voice from his dream echoed back.


	2. An Old Friend: Lilah

TITLE:  The Caged Birds Sing

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise to put them away carefully when I'm finished.

NOTES: Chapter 2 of 5. This was supposed to be Faith's chapter, really it was. But the more I tried to write Faith, the more Lilah wanted to be heard. And what Lilah wants, Lilah gets. So it's her turn next.

Thanks for the reviews guys! Sorry for messing with your head, Wesless, but you can read these as character studies for the show (without recourse to 'Soul Cages'). But if it gets you reading 'Soul Cages' again, then I shouldn't complain. Donnatella – you sweetie! Just want to let you know that we'll be hearing from Wes quite soon, though Angel won't be getting a chapter! Remember those five _lost _souls…

Title for this chapter comes from Soul Cages Chp1. The quotes on the nature of evil and the devil come from the book 'Journey' by Suzanne Massey.

Chapter 2: An Old Friend – Lilah

'Darkness falling. She felt it, in him, recognized it as an old friend, now come to fill up his heart.'

(Lilah Morgan – 'In the Chaos of Cages')

She glanced at her reflection in the window of the bistro, noting with pleasure that she was the best-dressed woman there. Having said that, she guessed that most of the other women in the bistro were not there as a part of an ongoing job interview for Wolfram and Hart, Attorneys at Law. Even so, you'd think they could have made more of an effort.

That was one of things she could thank her mother for.

'Always dress nicely, Lilah dear. You are always on show. Never be caught without your makeup, your hair undone, non-matching underwear.' 

She had taken her mother's advice today. 

'That dark green Donna Karan, darling, it brings out the emerald in your eyes.'

She crossed her legs carefully, was pleased with the effect; a little hint of creamy thigh tantalisingly visible though the split in her pencil straight skirt. She ran perfectly french polished nails through her auburn hair, now a little shorter than she had worn it at grad school. Brought her hand down to admire the one and a half carat Cartier diamond which now adorned her forth finger.

It was a beautiful ring. So pretty that she really hadn't thought about the consequences of actually accepting it when it was offered. Mark was undeniably perfect husband material; handsome in that typically blue-eyed, golden-haired way, reasonably intelligent, from an extremely wealthy and well-connected family. Her mother was in raptures about the engagement.

'So proud of you, darling, a wonderful catch. Such good genes. The two of you will make beautiful babies…'

She curled her lip at that, took another sip of the skimmed milk latte she had ordered as she waited for her 'date'. Mark was simply another part of her wardrobe; she put him on when she went out for the evening, and took him off just as simply when they came home. Well, that part wasn't quite true. She simply switched herself off. She knew Mark hadn't noticed; he seemed perfectly content with their relationship. But then she had become very adept at it. Years of practice will do that to you.

She gave herself a little mental shake. Not today. We won't be going there today, Lilah. She set down her coffee cup and dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin.

'Ms. Morgan?'

The voice was warm and friendly; she looked up to see a pleasant gentleman in his early fifties, wearing a Saville Row suit. She stood up to greet him.

'Mr. Manners.' 

He held her hand in his for a few moments, his surprisingly pale blue eyes meeting her own very steadily.

'Forgive my tardiness, but I was unavoidably detained – office business, you know?'

She nodded, and he flashed her a wide, almost wolfish grin, then sat down opposite her.

'What would you recommend?'

She wasn't sure if he was being polite, or if the interview had started already, so she shrugged her shoulders minutely, and studied the menu.

'The lobster and paw-paw salad seems good…'

Again those pale blue eyes flashed her a piercing look, and then dropped to his own menu.

'Lobster salad it is, then.'

He set the menu back on the table, and folded his hands deliberately in front of him.

'You may be wondering why we asked you here today.'

She had been wondering exactly that, but took pains not to show it.

'Of course, it's your firm's prerogative to conduct job interviews wherever you see fit.'

'How charmingly diplomatic, Ms. Morgan. May I call you Lilah?'

She smiled her assent. 

'You're aware that you've already met all our firm's requirements in your academic achievements?' Again she nodded. 'And you've undergone our mandatory psychological testing at the primary interview stage.'

He paused, picked at a non-existent thread on his cuff.

'At Wolfram and Hart, we like to get to know our potential employees a little better; so we conduct a more informal interview in a less intimidating setting. Hence the surroundings.'

He waved his hand airly.

A waiter approached, and they gave their orders, both choosing the lobster. Lilah wondered if perhaps it was part of the interview after all.

As they waited for the food to be brought, the older man began again.

'We want to get to know the real you, Lilah, the woman beneath the high honours graduate from Mortonson.'

'Well, Mr. Manners, I'm not sure…'

'Please, call me Holland.' He interrupted, with a disarming smile.

She almost blushed.

'Holland, I'm not sure I can add much to the interview I gave at your offices.'

'Oh, but I'm sure you can. I'm absolutely convinced of it.'

Their meals duly arrived, and Holland began to talk as he ate, skilfully drawing her into the conversation, getting her to reveal little glimpses of herself she liked to keep hidden. She realized suddenly that Holland Manners was a very dangerous man.

'And who's the lucky man?'

She blinked quickly, followed his gaze to the empire cut diamond, radiating light.

'Oh. My – my fiancée, Mark' 

She was obscurely ashamed of him, as if he did not belong in this place, in this conversation

'Have you been engaged long?'

'No. Only a few weeks.'

It was still a shock to her, when she remembered it. 

'It's important to have ties in our job, my dear. Something to ground us. Sometimes I think my Catherine is the only thing keeping me sane.'

He smiled, but this time the smile did not reach his eyes.

'The choices we make now will affect the rest of our lives. Family is very important, my dear.'

His blue eyes glowed with intensity.

'I'm sure your family is very important to you…'

He knew.  She had told no one, not a soul knew or even suspected it. She had made very sure of that. And this seemingly kindly old man had somehow figured it out.

*~*~*~*

'Mom?' 

She pushed open the front door, lifting her hand in a half wave to Elizabeth's mother, who tooted the Merc's horn and swung out of the gravel driveway.

'Mom, are you home?' 

There was no answer from the dining room, which was in darkness. She was late back from ballet rehearsals, as Vicki Cooper had come down with the flu, and Miss Forrest had asked Lilah to stay behind and practice the role of Coppelia, in case Vicki didn't recover before Saturday's recital.

'Mom, I got the lead!' She called again, tossing her bag into the hall closet, about to head up the stairs.

'Lilah, is that you?'

Her heart sank. If only she hadn't yelled so loud when she had first come in, she could just sneak up to her room, and she wouldn't have to talk to him…

Her stepfather's head appeared at the door of the den.

'You're late. Your mother said you'd be home around five. It's almost seven now.

'I had to stay late to rehearse.' She tried to make her tone pleasant.

'You should have called. I was worried.'

She bit back all the sarcastic comments that were queued up in her brain, and tried to sound sincerely apologetic. For her mother's sake.

'Sorry, Mike. I forgot.'

He seemed mollified by this, and turned to go back into the room. 

'You teenagers think the world revolves around you,' he muttered, sitting down on the couch again.

She took advantage of his distraction and started to go upstairs.

'Did you eat yet?'

Damn. She came to the door of the den. 

'Elizabeth's mom gave me dinner.' She lied.

'Your mom said to make sure you ate.'

He gave her a long look, his eyes lingering over her firm stomach, and she felt a familiar flash of uncontrollable rage. God, she hated him so much. She slipped her hand behind her back, letting it tighten into a fist, nails digging hard into the palm of her hand.

'I ate already. Look, Mike, I've got tons of homework.'

'Go on, then. Your mom'll be back at ten.'

He sat back on the couch, and she went upstairs to her room, turned the key in the lock.

After a few minutes, she heard his heavy tread on the stair, and he tried her door handle.

'Lilah, come on. You know she doesn't like it when we fight. It's so much nicer when we're friends…'

She closed her eyes and went to the door.

Darkness fell. 

*~*~*~*

'Do you believe in evil, Lilah?'

She stared at him as if he had asked her if she believed in fairies. This was obviously one of those metaphysical moral questions that law firms used to decide how willing one was to defend the rights of a confirmed criminal.

'You mean, evil in people? Of course. Absolutely no doubt.'

'No. I mean, do you believe in evil as a power, an entity in its own right?'

She wasn't sure what he was asking her.

'The devil, you mean?' She asked incredulously

He gave her a hooded look, his pale eyes sparkling

'Some call it by that name, yes.'

'I – I'm not sure. I've never really thought about it…'

'Oh come now, Lilah, we both know that's not true.'

She simply stared at him.

He smiled sadly at her, then leaned forward, conspiratorially

'Evil is near. Sometimes late at night the air grows strongly clammy and cold around me. I feel it brushing me…'

No. It was not possible that he could know this. She pushed her chair back hard, its feet grating across the marble tiled floor so loudly that the people at the next table stopped talking and stared.

'No. I won't do this. I won't go there.'

'Sit down, my dear.'

He sounded very calm, had the tone of a psychiatrist coaxing a suicidal patient off a window ledge. She pushed her chair back in, and reseated herself, shaken by his acuity.

'How did you – How could you know?' She asked incredulously.

He stirred his coffee thoughtfully.

'I make it my business to know everything about prospective employees.  Everything.' He stressed.

'So we've established that you're at least acquainted with evil. You have a working knowledge of it, if you will.'

She found his matter of fact attitude strangely refreshing. He didn't seem in the least shocked, simply treated this as another piece of information on her resume.

'It's important that you understand how we work here at Wolfram and Hart, Lilah.'

Oh, she understood that, alright. Junior Associate came with a package unrivalled by any of the other firms she had approached. Company car from a list of luxury European manufacturers, Health and Dental to die for, a clothing budget that would keep her in Prada for the rest of her natural life.

'We look for people who have the ability to see things in a,' he paused, as if searching for the correct phrase, 'more pragmatic light.'

His eyes met hers, and she held his gaze steadily.

'I believe you possess that ability, my dear. You see, it's not really about evil. Or good, for that matter. It's all about power, and who wields it.'

He stopped again, and took a sip of his coffee.

'At the minute, he has the power.'

He was right. Even now, years later, she was allowing it to affect her, in the way she conducted her relationships. She was simply an absent partner. She had become so skilled at it that most of them didn't even realize she wasn't there. And she was never there, never in the dark.

'You could change that, Lilah.'

His voice was so soft, so gentle, belying his words.

'Like I said, the choices you make now will affect you for the rest of your life. I wonder if you're ready to make those choices.'

He cleared his throat.

'Difficult choices. Perhaps morally unconscionable choices.'

'I'm not sure I understand.' Though she understood perfectly what he was suggesting.

'Oh, I think we understand each other very well, my dear. The question is, are you willing to make that choice?'

She lowered her head, thought of a stolen childhood, of darkness falling around her.

'Do it.'

He smiled broadly.

'Ah, Lilah. I knew you had potential.'

'Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Manners. Make sure he suffers.' 

'But of course, Ms. Morgan. I think you're going to do just fine at Wolfram and Hart.'

*~*~*~*

It was a beautiful bright July day. The sunlight was gently diffused by the leaves on the beech trees, providing dappled shade from the heat of the late afternoon. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, adjusted the brim of her hat with a perfectly manicured hand, then placed it demurely in her lap. 

Gazing down at her hands, she was suddenly aware of how bare her finger looked now. Not that she missed Mark. He had been heartbroken when she had returned the ring, claiming her grief as an excuse not to marry. Not so soon after her stepfather's tragic accident. But she missed the ring.

The minister droned on about the resurrection and the life, and how we shall all be changed. All lies, all of it, the bastard was on an express ticket to hell which she had bought, and paid dearly for. But it had been worth it. 

When the police had come to the house to inform her mother of the accident, she had revelled in their description of the incident. It was a miracle he had survived the initial wreck, let alone exist for the three weeks afterwards in intensive care. Seventy percent third degree burns, the doctors had confirmed. By all rights, he should have died within hours of the accident.

And yet he had lingered. Her mother was, of course, completely distraught, unable to fill out any of the medical papers. Lilah had willingly stepped into the breach.

'Really, Ms. Morgan, we would recommend a Do Not Resuscitate Order in burn cases such as this. Your stepfather is in terrible pain.

She had raised a trembling hand to her eyes, dabbed at them delicately with a tiny handkerchief.

'But there must be something you can do, surely? Plastic surgery, or reconstruction? We mustn't give up hope. For my mother's sake.'

And he still he had lingered. She had kept a bedside vigil that was admired by the hospital staff. Such devotion to her mother, such care and attention paid to her stepfather. You didn't see that kind of familial feeling much these days.

She sat by him in his plastic tent, drinking in every moment of excruciating pain in his tormented existence. Every breath a laboured wheeze, every movement magnifying the agony a thousand times. And he was always conscious. He watched her fearfully, as if he knew her as the author of his fate. She stared back at him, kept her emotions firmly in check, her eyes icy cool.

When he had given way at last, she had leaned over the plastic tent, put her lips as near as she could to the charred flesh that had once been his ear.

'Goodbye, Mike. Welcome to hell.' 

The mourners were moving off now, and she adjusted her Chanel skirt before unfolding her long legs. She gave her mother's hand a reassuring squeeze.

'Oh, Lilah, darling, you've been a tower of strength. I don't know what I'm going to do without you.'

She leaned forward, brushed her lips against her mother's trembling cheek.

'Mom, you'll be fine.' She extricated her hand from her mother's grasp with some difficulty. 'You know I have to start work next week.'

Her mother sighed. 

'I suppose so. It's a wonderful job, darling. I'm so proud of you. My clever little girl.'

She almost smiled at that, then noticed a limousine parked a little further away than the others.

'Mom, I have to go and speak to someone.'

'I trust the arrangements were satisfactory?' 

He gave her that wolfish grin, his pale eyes twinkling.

'Oh, very.' She removed her dark glasses, and gave a demure little smile. 'But I'm guessing you're not here to pay your respects.'

He laughed then, and opened the briefcase that sat beside him on the leather seat. 

'How refreshingly direct you are, my dear.'

He removed a sheet of paper from the briefcase, then closed it again, and set the paper down on top. He leaned over to the fridge and retrieved a bottle of Moet and Chandon, along with two crystal champagne flutes. He uncorked the bottle expertly and poured the sparking liquid into the glasses.

'Ah, shouldn't I sign first?' She asked, a little surprised at his premature triumph.

He smiled in an almost paternal way, and handed her the contract. Her name was already there at the bottom, signed, it seemed, by her own hand.

'But I didn't sign yet!' she protested rather feebly.

'Oh, but you did. All the devil requires, Ms. Morgan, is acquiescence. Not struggle, not weakness. Acquiescence.'

She stared at him for a long moment, then gave her shoulders a brief shrug, and accepted the proffered glass of champagne.

'Here's to new beginnings, Mr. Manners.'

He raised his glass to meet hers.

'Welcome to Wolfram and Hart, Ms. Morgan.' 

She might be headed to damnation, but she was sure as hell going to enjoy the ride down.


	3. Living Dead Girl: Faith

TITLE:  The Caged Birds Sing

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise to put them away carefully when I'm finished.

NOTES: Chapter 3 of 5. Thanks for the reviews, everyone. Sorry about the Copellia slip, Imzadi, I should have known that. Glad you guys are enjoying these little back-stories; I'm really enjoying writing them! Wes really wants me to write his chapter, but I've told him that it's Faith's turn next. And, of course, being the gentleman that he is, he let me write hers first. It's set just before the Season 3 Buffy ep. 'Faith, Hope and Trick.'

Chapter title and the quote come from Soul Cages Chp.3

Chapter 3: Living Dead Girl

'His eyes met hers, burned with a blue-flamed intensity. And she wanted desperately for him to see it. See past the living dead girl.'

(Faith – 'The Child with his Father's Eyes')

She dumped the bag of groceries on to the bed of her motel room, and eyed the contents with distaste. Tinned spaghetti, slices of processed cheese, some doubtfully fresh bread, tortilla chips, and a selection of candy bars that made her teeth ache just looking at them. 

She sighed and lifted a tin of alphabetti spaghetti. Stuck her penknife into the lid of the tin, and worked round the edge, finally peeling back the lid to reveal the bright orange congealed mass inside. Now there was a colour that existed nowhere in nature. She switched on the T.V. and plonked herself on the end of the bed, rummaging in the bag for a plastic fork.

She had done this a thousand times. When her mom had been out of it, she had raided their poorly stocked cupboards, and ate whatever she could find. She never bothered to heat stuff up; they hadn't owned a microwave, and the electric company were always cutting them off for non-payment of their utilities bill. So she had developed a taste, or at least a resistance to the taste, of cold tinned food. She kicked off her boots and swallowed a mouthful of spaghetti, half-watching the cartoon on the screen ahead of her.

It was a Disney cartoon, one of those early ones, a classic. She wasn't too sure about that. Any of the Disney stuff she had seen in her childhood had been so saccharine it had made her want to hurl. Nothing she saw in those films bore any resemblance to the life she had led.

But as she watched, she decided she quite liked this one. There was a surreal quality to it, a strange darkness that she recognized. A little girl lost in a weird dream world, full of half mad rabbits, singing flowers and seriously stoned caterpillars. Plus that accent.

She gave herself a mental shake, scooped another forkful into her mouth.

*~*~*~*

The tank top was wicked cool, she decided, stuffing it back into the bag she had brought with her to the mall. Dave and Debbie – God, they even sounded like some kind of Mormon singing duo – gave her more than enough allowance to cover the price of the top, but it was a hard habit to break. She craved the danger, the thrill of knowing she was putting one over on the stupid store detectives. She reached into the bag again and brought out a lipstick, twisted it up deftly, smearing her lips dark red. The name on the tube was 'Dragon's Blood.' She liked that.

'Excuse me, Miss.'

Shit. Miss. 

Only cops and security guards would call her 'Miss' She turned to face a trim sandy-haired woman in her early thirties. About average height, and dressed in an understated but rather elegant grey suit. She did not look like a store detective.

'I don't believe you paid for those items.' Her voice was soft, with an accent she could not immediately place. Not South Boston, anyway.

'Five finger discount.' She smiled sweetly, held up five fingers briefly, then folded all but her middle finger down. 

The woman pressed her lips together in disapproval.

'I can see I've got my work cut out for me, Faith.'

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and she slid her hand into the back pocket of her jeans, feeling for her switchblade. 

'Who the hell are you, lady?' 

A list of possibilities was already forming in her mind.  Truant officer; social worker; caseworker from her foster team. She hated the fact that these people knew more about her than she ever knew about them. Talked to her as if they were going to be best buds at a slumber party, when all that ever happened was her life got even more messed up than it already was. And that was saying something.

The other woman looked at her steadily.

'You're a difficult girl to find. Not particularly fond of school, it seems.'

So, truant officer it was.

'I'm seventeen. Don't have to be there.'

'No, I suppose not. It's just, well, that was my cover. Substitute English teacher.'

Ah, that was the accent. She was from England. What the hell did she mean about her 'cover'? Who in their right mind would want to infiltrate her crappy high school?

'Look, perhaps I'd better explain this from the start. Do you want to get a coffee?'

Faith narrowed her eyes, gave the woman a long calculating look. 

'You buying?'

The Englishwoman smiled. 'Of course. I can even offer jelly donuts.'

Faith shrugged. 

'What the hell. Lead the way.'

It was always the quiet, normal looking ones. From looking at her, you would never have guessed that this pleasant, well-dressed woman was actually a paranoid lunatic with definite psychotic suicidal tendencies. Well, unless you possessed some of those tendencies yourself. Which was the only explanation for the situation in which Faith now found herself.

She was in one of the older city cemeteries, lounging on a headstone near a recently dug grave. The Englishwoman, who had introduced herself as Helen Sharpe, was seated on the headstone opposite, calmly describing the best methods of killing a vampire. She was holding what looked like the top of a stair banister, which had been sharpened to a very precise point. She was waving the weapon around rather wildly as she spoke, and Faith had a brief vision of her own hacked and bloody body on the morning news. 'Troubled teen truant slain in frenzied wooden post attack.' Kind of had a nice ring to it, she thought, almost wistfully. The woman finally completed her lecture, and lightly tossed her the weapon. Faith caught it expertly, felt a little stir in the pit of her stomach, as her fingers ran over the worn wood. As if it belonged there, in her hand.

'So. Let me see if I've got this straight. Monsters and vampires exist, demons are real, and the bogeyman really lives under my bed. And you work for a bunch of people who devote their lives to training teenage girls to…' she paused, trying to remember her exact words, 'slay them. You know, this whole slaying gig would probably work out a lot better for you if you picked more suitable candidates. Oh, I don't know, say professional wrestlers, or a bunch of ex-cons. My feeling is, your average cheerleader just isn't going to get the job done.'

'I understand that all of this is rather a shock to you, Faith, but we don't choose slayers. They are called.' She spoke in a slightly condescending tone.

'Well, my machine mustn't be picking up, then.' Faith sniped back sarcastically. 'Look, Ms. Sharpe, or Helen, or whatever the hell your name is, not that I don't think you're a fun lady to be with, but you need to get yourself some serious professional help. There are no such things as vampires.'

'Tell that to the undead corpse behind you.'

She twisted round to face a guy in his mid-twenties, wearing a business suit and a bewildered expression on what appeared to be his face. His features seemed to be distorted, as if his forehead and nose were made of too many layers of rubber, and his teeth were those of a wild animal, the incisors reminding her of the vampires in so many trashy horror flicks. His eyes were not human, they seemed to glow golden, almost cat-like. 

Oh God. The woman was so delusional she had paid some actor to dress up in cheesy special effects makeup. Faith reached out to rip off the latex mask, and was shocked when her hand came into contact with his skin. Shit. The guy was ice cold.

A weird little shiver ran down her spine, and she took a step back from him.

'It's okay. You feel it, don't you?'  The woman's voice was very quiet. 'That sense of evil.'

The guy shook his head, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He suddenly stood very still, sniffed the cool night air in a way that reminded Faith of a dog picking up a scent.

Then he growled; a deep, low, guttural and completely inhuman sound, that made her think that maybe the woman wasn't insane at all. In a flash, the guy had her by the neck, her feet dangling inches off the ground. 

'What the hell am I supposed to do?' She yelled to her companion, who was watching them with apparent unconcern.

'Relax, Faith, Trust your instincts.'

Her main instinct was not to become dinner, and she struggled in his iron grasp, aiming her knee into his groin expertly. There was a howl; and the vampire dropped her quickly, and hunched over to more properly explore his pain.

'Good girl! Now, press home your advantage.'

Faith spun on the balls of her feet, using the momentum she had created to carry her foot hard into the creature's chest, knocking him to the ground. She felt a rush of exhilaration, allowing the energy coursing through her body to control her movements. She kicked him again, swung her fist into his stomach, and then remembered the wooden stake. She pulled the vampire onto his back, then placed the stake against his chest and shoved hard. 

There was very little sound. One minute she was straddling the creature, and the next she was kneeling in a pile of dust.

She looked up at the Englishwoman, who was smiling broadly at her. Faith stood up, brushed the remaining traces of vampire from her clothes. She couldn't keep the grin off her own face. Shit. This was what she was born for.

'Lady, I think I just got the call.'

*~*~*~*

She dug her fork deeper into the tin, scraping the side of her thumb against the ragged edge of the lid. The cut welled slowly; she stared in fascination at the thin line of blood that slowly blossomed along the slit. She watched as her blood pooled and ran down towards her hand, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. The pain finally made itself known and she lifted her thumb to her mouth, sucked the wound absently.

Helen had told her of the other slayers, of the ones who had not wanted the responsibility of being the Chosen One. She could never understand that. She had meant nothing all her life. Her mom had made sure she knew that. 'My little mistake', she would call her, in the rare moments when she showed Faith something approaching affection.  

After she had been taken into care, she had discovered that she was nothing but a case file number; a headache for an overworked social services department, who were more than happy to ship her out to any foster family who would have her. And there hadn't been many of those. She wasn't cute, and she wasn't sweet, and most of those families really wanted babies who would love them unconditionally, and not stomp around the house, throwing stuff and generally hurling abuse at them. So she learned that she didn't really matter. 

Even with Debbie and Dave, who had put up with her for over a year, Faith knew that it wasn't really about her. She was simply a project to them, a chance to prove how wonderful they were at saving her lost soul. She, Faith, meant nothing.

Until Helen had come into her life. She had given her a reason for her existence, had treated her as if she was worth something. Faith had mattered to her. And for the first time in her life, she had felt valued. Her thumb gave another throb, and she sucked harder, blinking back tears furiously.

*~*~*~*

She had forgotten what it was like to feel this afraid. Her heart thumped so hard that she was sure it echoed through every room of this nightmarish house. She had dozed off after a training session at Helen's, and had a weirdly lucid dream, where Helen was really mad with someone and she was yelling that it wasn't right, they couldn't do it, she would have no part of it. 

And then someone who wasn't her watcher moved towards her, cold fingers touching her bare arm, a needle sliding in. Cold blue eyes watching her with dispassionate curiosity. Helen's voice again, pleading this time, and then the other spoke; coldly, quietly, a voice that sent shivers along her spine. Then darkness fell.

She had woken in this place; in the semi-darkness of a bedroom, and had immediately sensed the presence of the vampire in the house. As she had struggled with the locked door, it had become terrifyingly apparent that she no longer possessed any slayer powers. There were several fresh needle tracks in her upper arm, which she figured meant that she had been drugged. 

This had been done on purpose. 

Now she cowered against the door, suddenly small again, unable to control what was going to happen to her. 

'Faith!' A hissed whisper came from the window.

She turned to see Helen swing her leg over the casement, and climb into the room. She was breathing heavily.

'I am so out of condition!' She leaned over for a moment, hands on her hips. 'Are you okay?'

She couldn't speak, felt the hot pressure of tears well up behind her eyes.

'Did he - hurt you?' Helen's voice wobbled a little, and she came over, knelt down beside her on the floor.

She managed to shake her head.

'Helen – something's happened to me. I'm not strong.' She couldn't keep the tremble out of her own voice, and a tear splashed onto the worn denim of her jeans.

'Bastards!' Helen breathed the word viciously; and she knew they were in trouble. Helen never, ever cursed. She was always picking Faith up on her swearing. Things must be really bad.

'It's a test, Faith. When a slayer reaches the age of eighteen, the Council has decreed they must undergo a rite of passage, to prove their resourcefulness.' Her voice was full of disgust.

'A completely outdated exercise in cruelty, which proves nothing other than the fact that the Council of Watchers is an anachronistic bunch of misogynists.

Faith wasn't sure exactly what she meant, but she could tell that Helen hadn't been a party to it.

'What's the test?' She whispered.

'The cruciamentum.' Helen spat. 'They lock the weakened slayer in a house with a vicious vampire. The slayer is given no weapons, but is expected to defeat the vampire using her stealth, wit and cunning.' Scorn dripped off every syllable.

'And what usually happens?' 

'Well, let's just say not many of the slayers have made it past eighteen. It's a completely hopeless situation, and those that did survive usually put their escape down to luck, rather than any great strategy.'

Helen put her hand over Faith's own, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

'I thought perhaps you could do with some luck.'

Then she reached into her pocket, and pulled out a jewelled dagger, which had an inscription carved into the handle.

'The vampire you are supposed to face is called Kakistos. His name comes from the Greek, meaning the worst of the worst. He is one of the very oldest vampires we know of. The council had heard rumours that he was in this area, so they let it be known that the slayer had challenged him. He's an old fashioned vampire, really prides himself on the fact that he's never been bested by a slayer. So when they issued the challenge, he couldn't resist.'

She paused, ran her fingers over the jewelled hilt of the weapon.

'When I found out about it, I tried to stop them.' 

Only now did Faith notice the red marks on Helen's face, the beginnings of a black eye. She felt anger rise in her throat.

'But I did manage to find out about this.'

She held out the dagger to Faith, who took it carefully. Moonlight from the open window glinted off the blade, and the jewels that were inset in the heavy handle seemed to glow in the heat of her hand.

'It's about nine hundred years old, supposedly fashioned by the Knights Hospitallers, who used it against the infidel in the crusades. It is thought to possess the power to permanently wound those who do not follow Christ. A category that would include our master vampire. The inscription on the handle loosely translates as "death to the unbeliever".'

Faith allowed herself a little smile. Even in a situation as desperate as the one they now faced, Helen couldn't quite control the watcher-lecturing gene.

'So, I'm guessing that this night hospital knife must be pretty valuable, if it's as old as you say. How come it isn't locked up in a museum somewhere?'

Even in the dark, she saw the warm blush spread across her watcher's face. Once they had established the fact that Faith would no longer be attending high school, Helen's cover had been changed to a visiting curator at the Museum of Fine Arts

'Oh, Helen, tell me it ain't so!' Faith teased softly.

The older woman looked a little sheepish, and shrugged her shoulders.

'Five finger discount, Faith. Anyway, I'll replace it once the job is done.'    

Faith felt her heart swell; that anyone would think her worthy of such trust, was almost unbelievable.

The feeling of joy was, unfortunately, short-lived. 

There was a sudden crash of rotten wood splintering, and the door to the bedroom gave way easily.

'So, Slayer, we meet at last.'

He was possibly the most unpleasant specimen of the undead she had faced, and considering some of the low unlives she had dusted, that was saying something. He was almost as broad as he was tall, his game face a permanent expression, the fingers of his hands cloven into goat-like hooves.

She scooted back against the wall, suddenly realizing what she was up against. This was a vampire she would have had trouble despatching had she been at full slayer strength. In her current state, she hadn't a hope in hell of dusting this son of a bitch.

'And you brought a friend. How considerate, bringing me an appetizer before the entrée.'

He leaned down, placed his grotesque excuse for a hand on her trembling thigh.

'Mm, I can feel the adrenaline in your pulse. Slayer blood and uncontrollable terror; such a heady cocktail.'

She swung her hand, slashing wildly at his face with the dagger, its blade ripping into the flesh above his eye, then slicing down through the socket. He roared involuntarily, and lifted his cloven fingers to the wound, blindly trying to hold his eye in place.

'You will pay for that, bitch!' He screamed, seizing Helen by her throat and hauling her to her feet. 'You will get to see her butchered before you die.'

Faith was transfixed in horror. The knife slipped from her grasp and Kakistos scooped it up, held its tip to Helen's face.

'An eye for an eye, my dear.'

*~*~*~*

She stared into the empty tin, the last few strands of spaghetti clinging limply to the sides of the can. 

She remembered the look in her watcher's eyes just before the vampire took his revenge. A look of such trust and faith. Helen believed in her, even without her powers. Had believed in her until the moment Faith turned away, fled from a scene she couldn't witness, would not witness. She had looked back, once, after she had climbed out of the window. 

The look in Helen's eyes then had broken her. A look of such serenity, understanding, forgiveness. She had betrayed the only person in her life who had ever cared about her. 

So all the others had been right. She meant nothing, was worse than nothing. A traitor to her watcher, a selfish weak coward. She had the chance to save her, and had chosen to run.

And she'd been running ever since.


	4. Little Dark Places: Wesley

TITLE:  The Caged Birds Sing

AUTHOR:  Eloise 

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with him. I promise not to hurt him. Well, not too much.

NOTES: Chapter 4 of 5. You know, now that I've finally got here, I'm absolutely terrified. I have wanted to write this story for so long, and I've been looking for a reason to do it. The back-stories for Soul Cages gave the perfect excuse. All the time I was writing Connor, Lilah and Faith; Wes was in my head, whispering his story to me. And now it's his turn. Hope you guys like it…

This chapter is slightly different from the others; it raises some questions about Wes's childhood, which will hopefully be answered in the final chap. Not that I like cliff-hangers or anything… 

Chapter Title and quote come from Soul Cages Chp.7

Chapter 4: Little Dark Places

'You know I can break you, Wesley. I know your weaknesses. All those little dark places…'

('Teuer' – 'The Ninth World')

The world outside the window was grey and leaden, typical end of summer term weather. For the previous three weeks, as he had sat his first year exams, the sun had baked the cricket pitches, turned the school gym into a sweltering approximation of hell on earth. But the day, almost the moment the academy had broken up for the holidays, the sky had darkened, clouds gathering ominously overhead. It had been threatening rain all day, but so far the weather had held, the clouds growing ever more swollen and grey.

He watched as the fields passed by lazily, a dull patchwork of green and bleached out yellow. Some of them contained large rolls of hay, already encased in black plastic tarpaulins, in readiness for the imminent storm. The train lurched gently, swaying to and fro, one of the more ancient examples of British Rail rolling stock. He guessed that these carriages were probably pre-war, each one a separate compartment, connected only by a long passageway on one side. And this was a branch line, not used by commuters, and thus not considered worthy of modernization.

Indeed, he was the only traveller in his particular compartment, and he doubted there were more than a dozen passengers on the entire train. Certainly none of his schoolmates were on board. Most of them had been retrieved by their parents, who had attended prize day, and then removed their offspring for a celebratory tea in the village cake shop. 

He had known, of course, what to expect, after the letter containing details of his travel arrangements had been delivered to his housemaster the week before the end of term. Had guessed even before it arrived. He should really have been grateful they had remembered at all.

He stared out of the window, the overhead light in his compartment flickering slightly as the train juddered into a tunnel. The world outside was plunged into sudden darkness, and he studied the reflection in the window with distaste. His thin frame, too small for his eleven years, looked even smaller, due to the huge school blazer that still hung past his wrists. His mother had bought it a size too big, insisting that he would grow into it, would probably outgrow it by the end of the year. He was still waiting for that growth spurt.

His hair was short and dark, and despite frequent applications of comb and water, still quite unruly. It was currently standing up at the back in little spikes, its darkness emphasizing his pale face. His too blue eyes were framed by penny-shaped lenses; the glasses that he had to wear pretty much all the time. He hated his glasses. They were just another reason why he was not good enough, and never would be.

The lights sputtered again, and this time failed, plunging the compartment into total blackness. The reflection of the little boy vanished, and Wesley was back in the dark.

*~*~*~*

The train pulled into the village station just after three, and Wesley gathered his bags, slinging them over his thin shoulders wearily. He opened the carriage door and stepped down onto the platform, then trailed his way to the luggage compartment.

The guard eyed him with irritation, breathing out a stream of cigarette smoke.

'What do you want, sonny?'

Wesley shifted his feet uncomfortably.

'My trunk, sir. It's there, behind those sacks.'

The man sighed theatrically, and ground his cigarette under his foot deliberately.

'How do I know it's yours?'

'Um, it's got my initials on it – WWP. W-Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.' He managed to stammer.

Almost immediately the man's demeanour changed, he got that look in his eyes that Wesley had got used to seeing when he told anyone his name.

'Sorry, son. Didn't realize who you were. You just home from boarding school?' The man asked, as he hauled the heavy metal trunk onto the platform

He nodded, knew that any discussion of the true nature of his 'boarding school' was unnecessary, and also expressly forbidden.

'Your Mum and Dad coming to pick you up, then? That trunk's far too heavy for the likes of you to be carrying home.'

He felt his face flame, hated the hot rush of tears that suddenly flooded his eyes, threatening to spill onto his cheeks. He removed his glasses, brushed his hand across his eyes roughly, replacing the spectacles firmly.

'Um, I don't know.'

He looked up and down the platform, beyond the station and into the small car park nearby. It was empty.

The man was now looking at him with a hateful mixture of pity and compassion.

'Never you mind, sonny. They probably got the times mixed up. Tell you what, why don't I arrange to have the post van deliver your trunk up to the house. Then you can walk home, and give your parents a surprise.'

Wesley nodded, thanking the guard politely, as he had been taught. He set off through the station, thinking that it really wasn't that far to the house, and his other bags weren't really that heavy. He had just made it out of the village when the storm that had been gathering all day broke, and the heavens finally opened. 

He trudged doggedly along the side of the road, his brown leather oxfords gradually becoming saturated. His socks were soaking wet, and rain dripped off the peak of his school cap, splashing onto his glasses. 

'Bugger.' He whispered, using the worst word he knew, confident that there was no one else fool enough to be out in this weather to overhear him. He said it over and over, rhythmically, a mantra as he plodded along the verge, revelling in the sheer recklessness of the word. 

He made it to the entrance gates of his house, the long gravel driveway extending before him.

'Bugger.' He said it one more time, knew he would not risk using such language within those gates.

The rain was now easing off slightly, which made him think that the gods, if they actually existed, really didn't like him very much. He wondered what it was he had done to piss them off so badly. Then remembered. 

The solid oak double doors to the entrance porch were already pushed open, and he stepped onto the tiled floor, dropping his bags beside the brass umbrella stand. He wiped his feet diligently on the mat, and removed his cap, running wet fingers through his untidy hair. He hung his cap on the tall ebony hat stand, and placed his hand gently on the handle of the porch door. It opened easily, and Wesley stepped into the main hall of his home.

It was cool and dark; the heavy oak panelling that covered the walls absorbed any light that managed to find its way into the hall. Currently the only illumination was from the pale insipid rays of post rainstorm sunshine, refracted by the leaded lights in the porch door. They bounced off the intricately tiled floor and sparked the brass stair rods delicately.

He stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs, blinking furiously. 

Remembering.

A childhood game, a favourite pastime, sledging down the stairs on one of his mother's tin tea trays. You had to swerve hard before you reached the second stair from the bottom, or you would hit the console table next to the entrance porch. One time he had turned too late, had gone crashing into the table, knocking the antique Tiffany lamp onto the tiled floor, shattering it into hundreds of tiny fragments.

Mum had been furious, and had sent him to his room to await judgement, which had been duly delivered by his father's firm hand. There had been no great weight of anger behind his father's reprimand; just the tiniest hint of surprise that he, Wesley, would do such a reckless thing. But that was before.

He took a step back from the staircase, and looked around him. On his right, a door opened onto the sitting room, a room full of antique furniture and expensive objets d'art. Not a room Wesley liked to spend much time in; his natural clumsiness seemed to escalate when he entered rooms such as this one.

On his left was his father's study. He wasn't sure how he felt about this room. It was rather dark and oppressive, the walls lined with deep oak shelves, heavy with leather bound volumes. Some antique texts, source books, grammars and dictionaries, a collection that was rare and unique. He loved his father's books, had discovered that he had a talent for memorizing facts, for learning and translating other languages, and he was truly fascinated by these books.

But the study wasn't just about books. This was where his father spent a great deal of his time when he wasn't at the Council, and he demanded absolute quiet in the house when he was working. Wesley had learned to move around the house silently, avoiding the room as much as possible.

He moved down the hall, past the double doors that led into the formal dining room on his left, towards the long panelled wall at the end of the passage way. On his right was another door, set into the intricately carved wood of the staircase. It was not immediately obvious, seemed to be simply one of a long expanse of panels that started at the foot of the stairs, and reached almost to the end wall. He knew it was there, though, its presence identified by a brass key set into the lock.

On the opposite wall, between the kitchen and breakfast room doors, was another long table, this one decorated by a large vase of flowers. His mother liked to have fresh flowers in the hall, even though they never seemed to survive very long in the semi gloom. The current arrangement was mainly huge white lilies, with a few stems of greenery mixed among them. The smell from them was incredibly powerful, and Wesley found himself suddenly and inexplicably tearful. 

He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer.

'Wesley!'

A stern voice split the silence, full of exasperated irritation. Wesley shoved his glasses back onto his nose and turned immediately, straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders, hands stiff by his sides.

His father was not happy. He was standing at the porch door, raincoat in one hand, car keys in the other.

'I have been waiting at the station since a quarter to four.'

Wesley looked at the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. Almost four fifteen.

'I called there for you on the way home from my Council meeting. Would you mind telling me where you were?'

His voice was very quiet, but Wesley knew that was not always a good sign. God, he hadn't been home ten minutes, and he was already in trouble. 

'Um, the train got in at three, Father. I – I thought that…'

What had he thought? That they had forgotten him, were too preoccupied to remember to pick him up. He wasn't about to tell his father that.

'Thought what, boy? Come on, speak up.'

'I – I don't know, sir.' It was a lie, but it was the safest answer by far.

'So you decided to walk home by yourself. What about your trunk?'

This was just getting worse.

'Um, the guard at the station said he would have it sent up to the house with the post van.'

His father set the keys down on the lamp table, dropped his raincoat on a chair. 

'Come here, Wesley.'

All good sense should have made him turn and run, but the instinct to obey that voice was deeply ingrained in him. Before he knew it, he was standing before the man, trying to control the trembling in his knees. 

His father dropped his hand onto Wesley's shoulder, and his face creased into a frown, as his fingers felt the dampness of the grey serge blazer. Wesley swallowed silently. 

'You're soaked through, boy!'

This wasn't what he had been expecting, and he raised his head at the unexpected concern in his father's voice.

'I'm sorry I walked home by myself, Father.'

The hand at this shoulder retained its firm hold, and he was turned to face the stairs. So he was in trouble after all. His father stilled him with one hand, his long fingers biting into soft muscle. Wesley tensed, waiting.

But the blow he was expecting did not fall. Instead, his father shoved him gently in the small of the back.

'Go on upstairs, boy, and get out of those wet things. When you've changed, come downstairs for tea. Your mother will be wondering where you are.'

His voice was gruff, and Wesley did as he was bid, so surprised by this unaccustomed solicitude that he almost believed his father.

Almost.

*~*~*~*

He crept downstairs as quietly as possible; aware that his father was already at work in his study, and that any unnecessary noise would have unpleasant consequences for him. His father had made that very clear during dinner the previous evening.

His mother had greeted him, rather absently, as he had known she would. He had gone to her, and kissed her lightly, and she had started, then reached up to her cheek.

'Wesley, dear, you're home. You met your father at the station, then?' 

And then his father had started in on the reprimand he had clearly been itching to give. There had been a long lecture on his foolishness, and a solemn warning that such behaviour would not be tolerated. Wesley knew his father well enough to take him at his word.

He tiptoed past the study, hoping to make it into breakfast without being noticed, but his luck was out.

'Wesley, my boy. A word, if you please.'

His father sat at his desk, examining the morning post. With some degree of trepidation, he edged into the room, and with growing wariness approached the desk. He recognized the crest on the pristine white envelope that lay open on the top of the pile. His father was reading the contents of the envelope.

'I assume you know what this is?'

He felt his stomach lurch; his heart seemed to skip a beat.

'My school report, sir.'

He knew that he had done well in all his academic subjects, had gained A grades in all of them, and scored top marks in Latin and Ancient Greek. That wasn't the cause of the horrible dizzying nausea in the pit of his empty stomach. It was the results of the practical tests in his tactical fighting skills that were the source of his terror. He had fared abysmally. No matter how hard he trained, how often he practised, he did not seem to be able to improve.

'I am pleased to see that you are maintaining your studies diligently, my boy. However, I am very disappointed with your battle and tracking skills. You failed your fencing practical, and barely passed in the other disciplines.'

He paused, steepling his fingers together precisely. 

'It will not do, Wesley. Wyndam-Pryce's do not fail. You know that.'

As if it was his choice to fail.

'I know, sir. I'm sorry.' He really didn't know what else to say.

The older man stood up from his desk, folded his hands behind his back, deliberately.

'I suppose I must take a share of the blame. I admit that I have not pushed you in these areas, as much as I should have. Perhaps I have allowed myself to become preoccupied.'

He now walked over to the antique ebony cabinet where the weapons were stored, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the doors.

'That will change. We will begin a regime of training this summer, and you will improve your techniques with all these weapons.'

He indicated to the cabinet, and Wesley felt his heart sink.

'You will improve, Wesley, is that clear?'

He nodded, could not speak without betraying the tremor in his voice.

'Very well. We will begin this afternoon, with fencing practice.'

He lifted the smaller epee from the cabinet, and for a moment he said nothing, simply held the thin blade in his hand, gazing at it, lost in thought. Then he snapped back to reality.

'It's time you fulfilled your destiny, my boy.'

*~*~*~*

It had been an unmitigated disaster. The almost desperate desire to please and the fear of disappointing his father were a fateful combination. By the end of the session, every muscle in his body was aching, and his father was rapidly losing patience with him.

'Honestly, boy, you would think you had never held a sword before today. I don't know what's to be done with you.'

He had sent him to his room, and Wesley had fled gratefully, glad to be released from his father's presence. He had spent the rest of the afternoon reading the text that he had been set for that day, and had lost himself in the beauty of the Greek myths. He was to report to his father after tea, to be tested on what he had read. He didn't really mind that, knew the text as well as his father.

He carried the book downstairs; saw the reading lamp glowing on his father's desk.

'Father, I've finished the work you set for me.'

The older man set down his pen, and took a sip from the coffee cup on his desk.

'Hm. Let's hope you make a better job of your studies than you did of your fencing.'

Wesley felt his face redden.

'Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Give it here.'

Perhaps it was his eagerness to prove to his father that he could do something right. Perhaps it was the growing stiffness of his aching joints. Perhaps it was just his innate clumsiness. He moved to the desk to give his father the book, and stumbled. The book fell from his hand, and collided with the coffee cup.

Time seemed to slow. Wesley watched in fascinated horror as a dark pool of coffee bled across his father's manuscript. He raised his eyes to meet his father's. The man's face was thunderous, his eyes storm cloud grey, but his voice was calm, terrifyingly so.

Wesley, with a wisdom borne of recent bitter experience, knew enough not to cry.

Waited for the lecture to be over, for judgement to be pronounced. His clumsiness, his stupidity. He whispered an apology, aware that it was an exercise in futility, that it would not change the outcome. Obeyed the orders, hoping to appease his father, make judgement less harsh. It never seemed to.

He was overcome by a feeling of helplessness; trying to prepare himself for what was coming, yet knowing that was not possible. No help, no protection; his memories of previous times provided no clues on how to survive it.

So he bent his head, listened as the lecture was given, and silently prayed that he would be able to keep the tears inside until it was over.

Of course he couldn't. Had never been able to. So the darkness under the stairs beckoned.

His father's hand, tight on his arm, pulled him to the carved door. And he couldn't help the words that came out in a tiny scared voice.

'Please, father. I'm sorry. I'll try harder, I'll do better, I promise.'  Anything, anything. Begging to be forgiven.

But the hand at his arm gripped tighter.

'You must learn, Wesley. A watcher does not cry.'

And he was pushed into the blackness of the cupboard, the door closing firmly behind him. A quiet click as the key turned in the lock.

A moment later he heard his mother in the hall, her voice soft, pleading his case.

'He's only a little boy, Roger. Do you have to be so hard on him?'

'He will be a watcher. It's his destiny now. He has to be taught these lessons.'

His voice dropped a little, and Wesley pressed his head against the door, trying to hear the rest of his father's reply.

'I was too soft before. I won't make that mistake again.'

There was the sound of retreating footsteps, and the lamp in the hall was switched off, the thin line of light under the cupboard door extinguished.

And Wesley was back in the dark.


	5. Sacrifices: WesleyTeuer

TITLE: The Caged Birds Sing  
  
AUTHOR: Eloise  
  
  
  
RATING: PG13  
  
DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with him. I promise not to hurt him. Well, not too much.  
  
NOTES: Chapter 5 of 5. This has been a lovely set of vignettes to write, and I want to thank all you kind reviewers of this fic, and of 'Soul Cages', who urged me to do a sequel. Still not sure I could manage that, but I did get the idea of doing this prequel. Actually, you can blame DoReMi4, who wrote in a lovely review of Soul Cages Chp.7:  
  
'One of these days you must write a fic on the motivations behind Wesley's father's actions.'  
  
That got me thinking, and this chapter is the result. Once again it's a little different to previous chaps - it has two POVs, and sheds some light on the events of Chap 4.  
  
Chapter Title and Quote from Soul Cages Chap. 1  
  
Chapter 5: Sacrifices  
  
'It was easy to stand by, allow evil to work insidiously, become complicit by default. Opposing it was a difficult, painful business. It required sacrifices, and he had already made many of those.'  
  
('Teuer' - 'In the Chaos of Cages')  
  
Time was distorted in the darkness below the stairs. It did not appear to obey the laws of physics, as if this small space was exempt from reality. That didn't seem such a far-fetched notion to him. Sometimes it felt like hours, time dilating wildly, the tick of grandfather clock stretching unnaturally outside his prison.   
  
And no one came; no one acknowledged his presence in this enclosed space. And then he wondered if he actually existed in here, or if he was just a figment of his own imagination.  
  
Out of sight, out of mind. The invisible boy.   
  
It had been this way for over two years. He shifted against what he guessed must be the wall, and shivered. It was always cold in here. He reached up and pulled a heavy raincoat from the pegs above him, spread it around his shoulders and hunched his knees under it. It provided a little warmth, and he closed his eyes, relaxing a fraction.  
  
The blind darkness of the cupboard served to heighten his other senses, the feel of the waxed cotton Barbour rough against his chin, the smell of it reminding him faintly of his father. Mingling with another scent, the strong pepper spiced sweetness of the lilies in the hall. It was a perfume he hated, couldn't smell without his throat constricting, his eyes flooding with tears.  
  
He wasn't going to think about it. Not a place to go. Not when he was already so far into the dark. If he went there, he might never come back again. Might truly become invisible. Then again, considering this evening's events, perhaps invisibility might not be such a terrible thing.  
  
As if he had a choice in that.  
  
It was always the words that hurt most. The words stung more than his father's hand, which admittedly was fairly painful. Before, he had been strict, but always fair, and he had never spoken purposely to injure. Now, there seemed to be a calculated cruelty to his reprimands, leaving raw wounds, which could not heal.   
  
And simply confirmed what Wesley already knew.  
  
He was to blame.  
  
*~*~*~*  
  
He shifted the gears into neutral, and pulled on the handbrake, and allowed the engine to idle at the traffic lights.  
  
'Well, boys. Which of you wants to tell me the history of the building on our right?'  
  
There was silence from the back seat for the first few moments, and he glanced in his rear view mirror. His older boy was rolling his eyes theatrically, obviously considering himself far too old for such games. But the other little boy was looking towards the front seat nervously, clearly trying to work up the courage to speak  
  
'Um, it's Clifford's Tower, Father.'  
  
Another exaggerated eye roll from his older brother.  
  
'The present stone tower was built in the thirteenth century, but the original castle keep was made of wood.'  
  
He turned his head a little to address his younger son.  
  
'That's quite correct, Wesley. Go on.'  
  
The child swallowed nervously, and continued in a quiet voice.  
  
'During the eleventh century, many of the b-barons borrowed money from the wealthy Jews of the area to fund their crusades. The, um, burgesses of the town were jealous of them and spread rumours about them.'  
  
The child had obviously studied the subject diligently.  
  
'And who led the attack on the Jewish community in York?'  
  
He was thinking hard, his blue eyes screwed up in concentration.  
  
'Um, R - Richard Malebys, Sheriff of the county. He owed the Jews lots of money. The mob began burning the Jews out of their homes, so they took refuge in the king's Castle.'  
  
'Dates, Wesley?'  
  
'S-sixteenth of March, um, 1190?' There was a questioning note in his response.  
  
He nodded, quietly impressed by his son's recall of the facts.  
  
'And the events of that night?'  
  
'They began to burn the wooden keep on the motte beside the castle. The Jews were trapped inside. They had t-two choices. They could surrender themselves and face torture at the hands of the raging mob.  
  
'Or?'  
  
The little boy's voice grew softer.  
  
'Or kill themselves.'  
  
'And they chose the latter.'  
  
He paused, turned the car into the car park by the River Ouse.  
  
'A rather shameful chapter in our country's history. Certainly not our finest hour.'  
  
He turned the engine off, and undid his seat belt, turned to look at his younger son.  
  
'Is that what I caught you reading last night?'  
  
Wesley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, evidently remembering the previous evening's events.  
  
'Yes, sir.'  
  
Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to chastise the boy... but rules were rules. Wesley knew better than to disobey him. He got out of the car, both boys following suit. He reached out a hand, rested it on Wesley's shoulder briefly. The eight year old trembled slightly, then became very still. Beside them, Will was already bouncing with impatience.  
  
'Father, can we go to the Dungeons first? Please?'  
  
He lifted his hand, and sighed.  
  
'Very well. We can take the river path.'  
  
'Come on, Wes!'   
  
The twelve year old shoved his brother in the small of his back, and Wesley stumbled, almost tripping on an errant shoelace.  
  
He sighed again, almost inaudibly, watched his sons head off along the path, the younger struggling to keep pace with his older brother.   
  
Sometimes it was hard to believe they were brothers. Will was tall and moved with a natural ease and confidence; his blond head held high, shoulders squared. Wesley was small for his age, and was forever tripping over his feet, and bumping into things. He had hoped the situation would improve when the glasses had been prescribed, but the boy seemed as clumsy as ever.  
  
Then there was the difference in their temperaments. Will was bold almost to the point of recklessness, living his life on the principle of act first, think later. He was forever getting into scrapes, and no amount of stern rebukes seemed to discourage him. He smiled in spite of himself. An irrepressible recidivist, with the heart of a lion.  
  
Wesley, on the other hand, seemed to possess all the natural caution that his brother lacked. He was nervous of everything, lacked confidence in his own abilities. True, he wasn't particularly skilled in physical activities, but he was a quick study, and had a great intellectual curiosity. He would make an excellent researcher or translator for the Council. He'd never be a watcher, of course, but then that wasn't his destiny. That was Will's calling.  
  
'William, slow down.' He called out sharply.  
  
Wesley stopped and turned to face him obediently, but Will carried on. He sighed in exasperation and picked up his pace.  
  
*~*~*~*  
  
'Wes!'   
  
He did not respond, remained perfectly still under the bedclothes.  
  
'Wesley, you awake?' His brother hissed again.  
  
He kept his eyes closed tight, knowing that he would not be fooled.  
  
'Come on, Wes, I know you're awake.'   
  
He finally gave in; sat up in the small bed and blinked at the fuzzy image of his older brother, who appeared to be kneeling on the bed beside him. He reached out to the bedside table, feeling for his glasses, and pushed them on. Will was no longer clad in pyjamas; he had changed into a shirt, trousers, and a heavy pullover, and was positively bouncing with energy. Wesley felt his heart sink.  
  
'Come on, get dressed!'  
  
Will thumped him lightly on the arm, and indicated a pile of clothes on the chair by the door.  
  
'I'm sleepy, Will. What time is it?'  
  
'Just after eleven. Hurry up and get dressed.'  
  
He got out of bed and padded over to the chair, resignedly stripping off his own pyjamas and replacing them with his outdoor clothes.  
  
'Where are we going?' He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from adding 'this time'.  
  
'You heard them at dinner? Father and Uncle Henry, talking about the gathering at Whitby.'  
  
He couldn't deny that. They had both been listening avidly to the conversation, which was one of the reasons their father had come to York to visit Uncle Henry. The council had been informed that there was to be a large gathering of vampires at Whitby, apparently in some sort of twisted homage to Bram Stoker. Dracula fanatics, their uncle had called them. It was their father's job to collect as much information as possible about these vampires, and plan an attack strategy for the council.  
  
'Mm.' He dreaded to think what Will was planning.  
  
'We should go. And track them, you know.'  
  
He looked at his brother in sheer horror.  
  
'You must be mad! It's the middle of the night, and you know we're not supposed to go out after dark. And what if Father or Uncle Henry catches us? We'd get killed! That's if the vampires don't get us first!'  
  
What made him most angry was the smile on his brother's face. That self-assured, relaxed, mocking grin, displaying a confidence that he would never possess.  
  
'God, Wes, who are you more scared of? Father or the vamps?' The little note of scorn in his brother's voice made him feel even more pathetic.  
  
'It's not that. I just don't think... ' He didn't know what he wanted to say.  
  
'Come on, Wes,' he wheedled. 'We'll be fine. I just want to practise my tracking skills. They'll never know we were gone.'  
  
'Will, no.'  
  
'Aw, come on! Don't be such a baby. Wes, I need you to be my back-up.'  
  
Wesley looked up into his older brother's shining eyes, wanting desperately to be as brave and bold as Will, and not quite so afraid of the consequences if they were caught. He wavered as Will pushed up the sash window, eyeing him with something nearing contempt.  
  
'Fine. Stay here. Be a baby.' He spat.  
  
'No, wait! I'm coming.'  
  
As usual, when faced with a choice between Will's disgust and his own terror, he chose the latter. It was easier to live with fear than his brother's contempt.  
  
He pushed his glasses up nervously and followed his older brother out the bedroom window.   
  
  
  
The night air was damp, but not too cold. Warm enough, in fact, for them to be out without their coats. Not that they would have worn them anyway. It would have been too risky to creep downstairs to collect them from the cloakroom.  
  
They moved quietly, the younger following older, straining to keep up with the twelve year old's longer legs. The leader and the follower. As it always had been and ever would be.  
  
'Will.' His voice so soft, barely heard above the rustle of the wind in the trees.  
  
'What?' Exasperation evident in his brother's tone, as he stopped and turned to Wesley.  
  
'What are we going to do if we find them?' His fear betrayed by the tremble in his voice.   
  
'Invite them back to Uncle Henry's for tea.'   
  
Will looked at him, and cracked a grin at the expression of horror he couldn't keep off his face.   
  
'I'm joking, Wes. God, you are so easy to wind up!  
  
He reached into his pocket, and brought out two freshly sharpened stakes, handing one to Wesley.  
  
'You know what to do, right?  
  
He stared at the weapon; the wave of terror currently sweeping over him had little to do with the actual object.  
  
'Where did you get these?' He whispered.  
  
'Swiped them from Uncle Henry's study. Father left them in the desk drawer.'  
  
Wesley dropped the stake as if it were red hot. His brother picked it up and handed it back.  
  
'Come on. Take it. We're already in trouble.'  
  
What had happened to 'They'll never know we were gone'.  
  
'Might as well be properly armed if we come across the vamps.'  
  
Will turned again, and followed, more terrified than ever.  
  
Wesley rarely disobeyed his father, lived in awe of the man, but Will never seemed to be intimidated by him. His father took pride in his elder son's abilities, his prowess in battle skills and tracking. Wesley would watch them shyly sometimes when they sparred together. His father giving instructions and directions as they fought, Will following them easily, as if his body had been designed for that purpose alone. Not for the first time, Wesley wondered for what purpose he had been designed. He swallowed and ran a little to catch up with his brother.  
  
He should have been more forceful, should have stood up to his brother back in their bedroom. But he had been weak, cowardly, and now they were in this nightmare scenario.  
  
It was just so dark. Will had been out in front, moving quickly across the moors, and then suddenly he had disappeared. He had frozen, rooted to the ground in terror.  
  
'Will!' His voice suddenly sounded appallingly loud in the darkness.  
  
There was the sound of whimpering up ahead, and he forced his feet to move towards the noise. He came to the edge of a narrow gully, and peered down into it. He could just make out a huddled shape at the bottom of the ditch.  
  
'Will, a - are you okay?'   
  
'Wes, I can't move.' He sounded as if he was in pain. 'I think I've broken my leg.'  
  
Wesley knelt at the top of the gully, and looked into the dried up streambed, where his brother had fallen. He could see his leg bent awkwardly under him, and his face was deathly pale. Wesley began to make his way down the grassy slope.  
  
'No!' His older brother hissed.  
  
'But I can help you.'   
  
'You're too small, Wes.' But he said it apologetically, without any malice. 'We'd never make it home. You've got to go and get help. Get Father.'  
  
It was bad, then.  
  
'But I can't leave you here! The vampires...'  
  
'I'll be fine. I've got stakes; I've got my cross. Anyway, they don't even know I'm here.'  
  
He hesitated, unwilling to leave his brother.  
  
'Oh, for God's sake, just go! Don't be such a baby!'  
  
At the frustration in Will's tone, Wesley obeyed.  
  
'I'll be back soon, I promise.'  
  
He ran then, as fast as he had ever run, twigs snapping, branches tearing at his arms as his heart thudded in his chest. He did not slow even when the lights of his uncle's house came into view. Headed straight for the front door of the house, then skidded to a halt.  
  
Small fists hammered against solid oak, pounding as hard as he could, until the bolts were drawn back, and the heavy wooden door swung open.  
  
His father stood in the doorway, staring at him.  
  
For one long terrible moment, Wesley could not speak.  
  
'What in God's name are you doing out there, boy?'  
  
He thought involuntarily of the previous evening, when he had been caught reading under the bedcovers, after his mother had put his light out. His father had given him a solemn lecture on disobedience, followed by a more physical expression of his displeasure. He swallowed at the thought of the punishment that awaited him for this transgression.  
  
'Father, p - please, its Will. He fell; he's in trouble. He said to get you... we were out, tracking those vampires...'  
  
His father seized his arm, in a grip tight enough to leave bruises, and he yelped in pain.  
  
'Where, boy?' he dragged him into the hall, into the study, his uncle standing up in surprise.  
  
'I can show you. Please, sir, we have to hurry.'  
  
The two men grabbed weapons from the cabinet, and they took off at speed, Wesley leading the way.  
  
It hadn't seemed so far before. Wesley ran ahead, trying to remember exactly which fields they had passed through. Both his father and uncle carried powerful torches, which provided illumination for the immediate vicinity, but only served to make the unlit areas even more sinister.  
  
After what felt like an age to Wesley, they reached the top of the gully. His father shone his torch downwards. The light reflected off his brother's face, but his eyes were closed now.   
  
(He's only sleeping, he's okay, he's going to be fine)  
  
'Will, are you all right?'  
  
His father's voice, full of anxious concern. He was already halfway down the grassy slope.  
  
'William, you answer me now, boy, or you won't sit for a week!'  
  
The pale figure made no response.   
  
(He's okay, he's just resting, please don't be cross with him)  
  
He followed his father down into the gully, feet slithering wildly on the muddy grass. His heart beating so loud he could hear it in his ears. By now, the older man was at his brother's side.  
  
'Will, wake up.' His father's voice was soft now, much more scary than the stern tone he had used earlier.   
  
He slid his hand against his neck, checking for a pulse. Wesley landed by his brother as his father drew his hand back slowly. The torch by him on the ground illuminated the viscous red liquid, which now coated his fingers.  
  
'No.' Barely a whisper, then the torch was seized, shone onto the boy's neck. Deep puncture wounds clearly visible under its harsh glare, the holes already crusting, turning ruby dark.  
  
'No, Will, no. My boy, no.'   
  
Beside him, his father's voice cracked, his bloodied hand flung the torch down so hard it shattered the bulb.   
  
And they were in darkness.  
  
*~*~*~  
  
That was where he belonged.   
  
He had left his brother out there in the dark, helpless and alone. Let him be killed.  
  
And they had been in the dark ever since. His mother spent her days mourning the loss of her perfect child, reliving his funeral in the scent of lilies in the hall. It wasn't that she didn't love Wesley; it was just that she had loved Will so much more. Wesley was an afterthought. She loved him when she remembered about him.   
  
He pulled his knees tighter to his chest, and shivered a little. His father had become harsher, would no longer tolerate weakness or disobedience. And he was so weak. Always trying to be more like him, but always failing. Making stupid, clumsy mistakes. Making Father angry. Because he would never be good enough. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be Will.  
  
There was a distant click, and a faint golden line of light suddenly appeared at the foot of the door. The study lamp had been turned on. He held his breath, listened to the footsteps on the tiled floor outside his prison. The key was turned in the lock, and he shoved the coat off to one side, his stomach light with nerves.  
  
His father opened the door wide.  
  
'Out, please, Wesley.'   
  
He obeyed, his legs stiff with cramp, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Then stood before his father, head bowed, clasping his hands behind his back.   
  
'It's late, boy. Time you were in bed.'  
  
A voice he can barely remember, full of gruff concern.  
  
'Yes, sir.' He answered meekly, starting towards the stairs.  
  
'Wait.'   
  
He stopped, wondering if this was a trick, if he was going to be put back into the cupboard, a new twist to his punishment. He raised his eyes to his father's, and was shocked to see him in the grip of some powerful emotion.  
  
'Wesley, these things have to be done. You understand that, don't you.'  
  
Not really sure what his answer was supposed to be.  
  
'Yes, Father.'   
  
The man placed his hand on his shoulder, and he could not stop the automatic reflex that made him flinch at the contact.  
  
'Go to bed, boy.'  
  
He obeyed, moved towards the stairs slowly. And for one moment he imagined he could feel his father's fingers flicker onto his head in a brief tender caress. He bit his lip hard, controlling the tremble there, and headed upstairs.   
  
The ghost of his father's touch still upon him.  
  
FIN 


End file.
